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So, let’s put our imagination caps on for a second and imagine that by some extreme force of unspeakable misfortune, our fair city was left with just one bar. JUST ONE BAR. The horror! Well, imagine that one bar is called DETROIT and has attracted one person from nearly every neighborhood in the city. This is what everyone would be doing...

Hamtramck is the only person in this bar that could win in a fight, provided she hasn’t already done six shots of Jameson and passed out while screaming something about how it’s bullshit this place doesn’t have karaoke.

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Palmer Woods is drinking a top-shelf dirty martini and making eyes at the piano man hoping he’ll play “Misty” for her.

Greektown is trying to think of ways to seduce Palmer Woods but the flashing lights are just too bright for him to see anything, so he starts valeting cars for extra cash instead.

West Village is arm wrestling Indian Village in an attempt to prove its virility and status as the reigning king of giant Eastside houses. Indian Village tells West Village he’s just another Northville in disguise and West Village takes a swing at Indian Village, but misses and hits Eastern Market instead.

Eastern Market says, “I’ve had enough of this shit” and hops on his fixie to go grab a pour-over Fair Trade coffee at a more refined kind of social gathering spot.

New Center is off in a corner by himself working on architectural blueprints and drinking a Miller High Life after putting $5 worth of Cure songs in the jukebox.

Woodbridge is tending bar to pay for her master’s degree in social sciences which is taking seven years to complete, and considers ways to kick Midtown out of the bar so she won’t have to listen to any more blathering about how he’s so glad he moved here from San Francisco into one of these new cheap lofts and how he’s going to spend a couple years or so in Detroit, start an advertising business, and then probably move back to California and buy a house.

Corktown is trying to get her art career going and is getting free drinks from Woodbridge while she sits and draws caricatures of the other bar-goers, paying closest attention to Brush Park’s incredibly gratuitous mustache that makes it difficult for him to drink his Short’s draft without creating a waterfall of barley all over the bar that North Corktown built from reclaimed wood found in an abandoned library.

Delray is collecting all the empty bottles and cans from the tables so she can make good on the deposits. If Hamtramck is too drunk to win in a fight, Delray will be next in line.

Southwest is a couple who, by some miraculous gift of rhythm, is salsa dancing to The Cure in the middle of the bar, knocking over chairs and spilling sangria.

In a matter of minutes, Downtown has purchased the bar from its original owner -- Jefferson-Chalmers -- who is planning to retire on the profits and go live somewhere warm. Downtown is sitting in the secret room upstairs playing Internet poker and looking up occasionally from his Negroni and cigar only to make sure that Highland Park is keeping things in line as the bouncer, and shaking his head at the idiocy he’s witnessing.

The Mies van der Rohe Historic District is writing her third novel and sipping on a brimming glass of tempranillo while her head is buried in notes and notebooks.

Boston-Edison is wearing a hoodie and trying to go unrecognized even though he’s a Grammy-winning musician who’s decided to move to Detroit to go incognito and live the hard-labor life of renovating a decaying mansion.

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Megan Frye is a Detroit-based writer who can usually be found driving Hamtramck around to various karaoke bars. Tweet her your favorite karaoke jam at @fryechild.